


[The Laws of Astoria]

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-04
Updated: 2006-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:45:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The title comes from what I <i>think </i>Patrick sings at that part, but I already know I'm wrong.</p>
    </blockquote>





	[The Laws of Astoria]

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from what I _think_ Patrick sings at that part, but I already know I'm wrong.

Patrick thought he was doing a good job at concealment, but he should have known that Pete would have searched in all of his hiding-places until he found the right one. He would have _liked_ to think that Pete had intuited exactly where he would be, here sitting glumly in a dark silent wreck of an old car surrounded by metallic husks of other discarded vehicles, stacked in uncertain towers and blocking out the Saturday morning sunshine; but he knew that Pete's greatest strength and biggest weakness was his fucking tenacity, and he simply would not have given up until he had located Patrick.

"Fuck me," Pete breathed as he slid into the backseat of the car, Patrick curled up in the front passenger seat. The driver's side was much too crumpled for anyone larger than a two-year-old to sit down, and Patrick had been wondering if the driver had survived this accident. "You are one hard motherfucker to find."

"Kiss your mother with that mouth?" Patrick snapped helplessly, because he had _so_ wanted to be found by Pete, he had wanted someone to come sit in the car with him and look at him with understanding eyes, and at the same time, he wanted to be left alone. He had _brooding_ to get on with.

"Tell me what the hell is wrong, and maybe I'll kiss _you_."

"Pedo," Patrick sneered, but he was smiling a little, turning his head in the hopes that Pete would not see. He scoffed as he felt Pete's breath cascading down the neck of his jacket, the one he would soon discard because soon the morning would heat up ever so slightly in the throes of mid-fucking-spring madness. The soft breaths pressed against the back of his neck, and then were suddenly gone, and he knew without looking that Pete had slumped back in the seat, probably looking down at his black-painted fingernails and simply waiting.

He was quite positive that a lot of people thought that Pete was the biggest pain in the ass ever, the A-type that refused to sit still and simply listen; ergo, they did not even suspect that a Pete like this even existed, a Pete that was more than able to sit and take up space until someone's words were bubbling up from the pit of their stomach. Patrick found that he had begun to talk and was so surprised by this that he missed the very first part of what he himself was saying.

"....so it just feels as if I'm going nowhere, you know? The band is great, I like it, but what am I going to do after graduation? I don't know anything else but music. Growing up is a pain. There's gonna be light bills and cable bills and cooking, and I don't fucking _know_ , but I don't want to do it. _Fuck_. In two weeks it's me, myself and I, and it's gonna be one helluva party."

There continued to be nothing but silence from Pete, and suddenly Patrick was extremely grateful. For Pete to hold his tongue was nothing short of miraculous, and Patrick turned around in his seat and peered at him, sitting exactly the way Patrick thought he would have been, butt almost off the seat, head lolling back so that his eyes were half-slitted at Patrick, shiny brown lines. Pete made a peremptory flapping motion with his hand, which in Pete Sign Language meant _go on_.

"It's like," Patrick said slowly, "There's like. Okay, its a door, and its open, but its closing pretty quick, so what should I do?"

There. He had asked Pete something, but it was couched in the Spoken Word of Pete, which meant it was sufficiently vague and nonsensical so that Pete could comprehend.

"Stick your fucking foot in," Pete finally croaked, his voice still a little hoarse from the show two nights ago. He smiled a little, and Patrick had no clue what he was talking about, and yet he did. "Patrick. Sometimes, you just have to really hope for the best. And let it go at that."

Patrick eyed him with amused sceptism.

"Does that work for you?"

Pete actually laughed, and it seemed to bounce around the shoddy mess of car that Patrick had thought to lock himself in.

"Fuck, no. Don't you know me?" He actually twinkled at Patrick, who was grudgingly admitting to himself that he was feeling just a little bit better. Okay, fuck that, a _lot_. "And if you're going nowhere, can I come along for the ride?"

"Whatever," Patrick said, popping open his door and stepping out. "It might be a pretty quick ride. It might be over before we know it." He walked through the scrapyard quickly, not even waiting for Pete, just knowing he was striding comfortably along.

"Yeah," Pete said, from beside his right elbow. "I know."


End file.
